“I Became a Woman the Day my Grandpa Died”

Sometimes the moments that shape us most are the ones we never expect to share

This is Star’s story as told by Aurora Wells. Our “Opening Our Hearts” stories are based on people’s real-life experiences. By sharing these experiences publicly, we hope to help our readers feel less alone in their grief and, ultimately, to aid them in their healing process.

My grandpa would give anyone the shirt off his back.

And best of all, he loved his girls.  Without being wealthy — or even what most would call secure, he managed to spoil us.  All the kids in our family knew when it was payday.  And every two weeks, we would drive out to Sunnyvale to pick up his teenage daughter’s favorite pizza.

He smelled like Old Spice when we hugged him.

Whenever I whined for an ice cream, he dug through the seats of his little broke-down Pinto until he’d pocketed enough change to take me to Thrifty’s for a mint-chocolate-chip black-cherry double scoop.

“Whenever I whined for an ice cream, he dug through the seats of his little broke-down Pinto until he’d pocketed enough change to take me to Thrifty’s for a mint-chocolate-chip black-cherry double scoop.”

In short, he was my hero.

I was nine when the rollerblade craze hit grade schools across America.  My wall became plastered with pastel inline roller skates, torn with purpose from glossy catalogues.  My grandpa promised me a pair of my own, but each payday he was picked clean.  He would open his worn leather wallet, look down at me and sigh — “Not this week, darlin’.”

Weeks passed like years until finally, I told him it was OK.  I had solemnly accepted that the only rollerblades I’d ever own could be crumpled in a heartbeat.

Four days later, there they were: my very own pair of rollerblades.  He helped me lace them up.

I skated on air.

My grandpa knew the land.  We would drive around San Jose, and he’d point out strip malls and tract housing that used to be farms and orchards.  Despite his hard life, it was the only time he really seemed sad.

Once when I was small, we were driving along the 280, just past the Winchester Mystery House, when a box toppled off the truck in front of us.  Our breaks screeched like in a cartoon.  I leapt from the car, ignoring the black heat under my bare heels.   I hopped from foot to foot next to Grandpa as he raised the box of live crabs, snapping at the sun — I remember my awe and elation; as if we’d discovered pirate treasure in the middle of the road.  “We’ll eat good tonight,” he said with a smile.

That’s when I learned crabs scream in boiling water.

“That’s when I learned crabs scream in boiling water.”

(Nobody told me it was really just pressure, trapped inside their shells.)

I was ten or eleven when my grandpa died of a heart attack.  My mom pulled me out of class that afternoon, and we drove straight to his home.  He was so crazy generous that at the time, there was an old Vietnam vet named Jack sleeping in his studio apartment, along with my aunt and her toddler.

My mom began to cook, waiting for family to arrive.  I slipped out to play with the neighborhood kids I ran with on the weekends when I slept over.  I tried to forget my grandpa was dead — and returned home, covered in sweat, only to use the restroom.  I remember the bathroom mirrors were steamed over from a recent shower.

When I finished, I stared at the toilet paper in my hand, streaked with bright blood.  I knew what it meant.  I was expecting it — but not now.

This couldn’t be happening now.

I convinced myself that if I just pulled my pants up and went back outside, the blood would vanish.  It would all just go away.

“I convinced myself that if I just pulled my pants up and went back outside, the blood would vanish.  It would all just go away.”

So I ran back out to play.  I kept it a secret, denial damp between my legs.  Most of my memories from that day are lost to the exertion of forgetting.

The sun slowly set, and I had to go home.  Reluctantly, I returned to the bathroom.  I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

There is no way to stop the passage of time, I thought with a deep breath.

I unlocked the door and walked across the living room, to find my mother.

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